The Little Moth
by spacetastic
Summary: One-shot of Ryan/Cohen. What happens when a sane Sander Cohen is invited to the office of the great Andrew Ryan.


As they did when elegantly pressing the keys of the piano or when they danced in the air when singing, his hands were quivering. He did not know why, besides, the great Sander Cohen felt no fear, yet he was nervous. Then again, it was always him who made him feel this way; summoning a sudden stillness in himself and an unfamiliar careful choice of vocabulary and actions. Was he not the ambiance of the stage and the recorder? Was he not the craze of the snob reviewers and the idol of many? Down in the darkness of the ocean, he was, so why so timid with the one who promised all of this? Ah, but he knew why, he was not like the... others. The ones who threw themselves down at his feet: Fitzpatrick, Finnegan, Cobb. It was also he who he stood by in the lighthouse that day, when he gave him the keys to Fort Frolic, joking about their success and ultimate failures on the land above, the setting sun changing the scene to a muse of reflection and mutual respect. Or perhaps more than just mutual respect? Cohen chuckled to himself with a shaking head.

'Heh, why oh why do I coax myself into such fantasies?' he thought to himself, plastering onto his face another layer of thick white makeup. Ryan's office was quite exquisite as far as he was concerned, with its well polished timber desk and a wall consisting of only a window, revealing the subtle beauty of Rapture. Sitting in the chair set for him the existence of a ticking clock caught his attention, eventually turning to annoyance. Finally, he sighed.

'Why the delay? And that irritating ticking?'

Eventually he had turned to the clock in question and was scowling at its vocality, rising a few inches from the chair as if to charge and attack it head on.

"Forgive me, does its ticking annoy you, Sander?" A voice asked from the darkness, a hand reaching for the clock and stopping the hands to silence the ticking. Of course it was Ryan, who gracefully stepped into the light like a cat in a jungle. Sander turned away, sure that he was blushing under the heavy makeup. Plucking up courage, he looked back with a faux cough as the founder of Rapture sat at the desk before him with a sly smile.

"It annoys me frequently also, why I bought it in the first place I am unsure." He continued, looking back at the clock, the smile remaining.

"Perhaps because of its detail. A stunning creation, or some say. Carved with skillful perfection with carefully chosen parts. Despite its racket, I do conclude, I believe it to be quite a marvelous piece, wouldn't you agree, Sander?"

"Hmm... well I'm afraid my area of expertise lies not in machinery, Mr Ryan..." Sander smirked, realizing his 'area of expertise' was quite more varied than he told.

"Anyway, I'm sure you're wondering why I sent for you." Ryan asked.

"Well, of course."

Ryan rose from his chair, turning to the window and staring out at his creation silently.

"Sir?" Sander asked, concerned.

After a few seconds he finally spoke.

"Sander, do you... like it here in Rapture?"

The artist thought for a moment of his time in the city before responding.

"I am. Here, my art and my music is appreciated and I am a respectable member of this society, well at least I hope I am, anyway."

"But would you not prefer a career in New York or London? A life of fortune and wealth, instead of here in this... darkness?"

Again there was silence between the two, perhaps he was right. Yet in an odd sense, Sander found the darkness quite comforting, a place he could be, well, Sander.

"No, sir." he decided, "I don't think I would."

"Why?"

"Because up there, well, there aren't many people like you..." Sander mumbled, aware of how he sounded, his eyes locked on his knees as he swore he felt the chair on which he sat grow, or in the more likely case, himself shrinking.

"Me?" Ryan blurted, turning to stare at the cooky artist. "Are you... insinuating something, Sander?"

Sander felt a scream rise in his throat. If only he could tell him, and in doing so himself, how he truly felt, the desire to simply dive on the man barely contained within him. He was looking at him now, examining his strong and handsome features: His dark hair, his bold posture, his deep blue eyes. As soon as the thoughts had appeared he had stood and was heading towards the door, feeling ashamed of the queer imbecile he was. Never would he be allowed to indulge in such thoughts up there, now in Rapture he had taken it too far. It was only when he felt a hand on his wrist turning him towards the man he adored the destructive thoughts vanished, and their lips brushed.

They stood silently now, gazing out the window. They'd both cried on each other's shoulders, metaphorically and physically, told the truth, admitted their sins and other things, and now they simply stood staring. Perhaps they couldn't think of anything else to say, but now the silence was killing the artist. A cough. Followed by a chuckle by the man he loved, who turned to him with a nod.

"I know." He simply said, the two laughing for the moment before turning to momentary silence again.

"So do you think, we shall be forgiven, us two... us two..."

"Well there's no name for us. That's a wonderful start. Anyway I don't know, Sander, but it's not like there's any 'God' to ask forgiveness for though, is there?"

Sander nodded, finding the thought a little comforting. After this night that was exactly what he needed.

"Well, I believe it is time for me to depart." Sander smiled, eyeing the halted clock on the wall.

"Of course, you have a show tomorrow, do you not?"

"Yes, and sir, whatever I may feel for you, it doesn't matter. I understand."

Ryan smiled, turning away so the dark concealed his face.

"Thank you, and I'm certain you'll find someone deserving who... has the same taste as you. Forgive me."

"There's nothing to be forgiven sir, not to me."

Sander left the office not long after, feeling renewed and somewhat contented by his discussion with Ryan. He knew his feelings, and that they were not meant to be. He realized the weight on his friend's shoulders and that, well, he had no right to interfere. So he would not.

"My place is onstage, after all." He smirked, teleporting in a wisp of grey.

* * *

**Thanks for reading my One-shot! Hope you enjoyed!**


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